Colours
by EnderEnigma
Summary: A small fic dedicated to the colours during and after the Reichanbach Fall.


**A/N I will use the same colors multiple time**

* * *

Black coat, blue scarf.

Beige building – tall, incredibly and sickeningly tall.

White, pale face, speaking last words.

Black bicycle – bad timing, ridiculously bad timing.

Yellow spots dancing a pain-tango in his eyes.

Red, dark red, splattered across the street, a dot of it on Sherlock's nose.

Peach-colored hands restraining him – they're blurred, though.

An orange blanket draped across his shoulders, and the irony hurts.

* * *

Green rug in the living room, soft as his knees buckled.

Clear tears, transparent as polished glass, with no color.

Pink cardigan on Mrs. Hudson, trying to make tea without spilling it with her sniffling.

Yellow smiley face, looking for all the world like a mark of death and misery.

* * *

Black suit, buttoned with trembling fingers and stained with tears not ten minutes later.

Brown coffin that He would've hated is lowered into the ground.

Dark blue tombstone, with white letters and beautiful flowers that should draw attention away from the pain but they don't.

* * *

Grey haze over everything for ages and ages and ages – but really it's just a few days.

Black umbrella, swung around by Mycroft, who cryptically promises to pay for the flat.

Mahogany cane; his limp is back and worse than ever.

Black curls flash at him tauntingly in the streets, but he doesn't bother setting his heart up to be pulverized again.

Light grey dust collecting on the experiments – he doesn't have the energy or will to get rid of them.

Dark blue eyes unfocus, and they cover themselves with a sort of hopeless sheen.

Amber alcohol guzzled down, immediately regretted because it feels like he's betraying Him by not drinking from test tubes.

Grey coat on Lestrade, who drops in with a new case less and less often.

Black coat and blue scarf fading in and out - he's seen Him die a hundred times and come back even more.

* * *

Cerulean eyes, blonde hair streaked with brown, and he thinks God has finally had mercy on him – even her name is Mary, like the mother of Jesus.

Brown boxes are filled with his stuff, but he still can't bear to look at the experiments.

White-tinted vision; it's the one-year anniversary and he can't help but think Sherlock must be so bored in heaven.

Transparent tears, because he doesn't even know enough about the man's past to know he's gotten into heaven.

Red spaghetti sauce; Mary loves Italian cuisine, and spaghetti makes her eyes sparkle – _like Sherlock's,_ a treacherous voice whispers in his head – he tries not to listen, and eventually succeeds.

White sheets bunched up in his grasp- the nightmares are killing him like crushed glass would – from the inside out - and Sherlock's not here to make them go away.

* * *

Black sweater on Mary, who's come with him to the second-year anniversary, and he can't say whether he's embarrassed or grateful for the shoulder he's crying on.

White floor tiles in the bathroom that he's currently locked himself in.

Light brown cork that used to seal the bottle he's gulping down at the pub.

Black, cold eyes on an equally cold Sherlock that wanders through a haze of alcohol to glare at him, but all John can think for a few blissfully ignorant moments is _Sherlock's alive!_

Blue pills he takes the morning after, because even after _two damn years_ the hallucinations still left a gaping hole in his heart where his happiness should be.

* * *

Black, shiny pistol because he's decided that there are far too many second-rate criminals and far too little consulting detectives.

Grey moustache that Mary hates, but... well, it's his face, right?

Light blue stethoscope; he's working at the hospital again but avoids the front of the building at all costs.

Light pink, chapped lips drawn into a suspicious frown - he feels like he's being watched but he can't quite put a finger on it.

* * *

Red, small box: he's finally going to do it, he's going to ask Mary to take his hand in marriage.

Black slacks on the waiter, who's voice sounds so familiar but he doesn't know anyone French.

Purple dress on Mary, she looks stunning.

Gold champagne in the glass flutes, little bubbles floating up to the surface.

* * *

Black eyelashes blink at him, no doubt trying to deduce why he's angry.

Pink lips quirk at the corners - he'd thought the hallucinations had stopped the first year but then he sees something-

Blue-green eyes stare down at him, looking so real they were surreal, like hot water that felt cold, because the nerves had to adjust to the extreme temperature-

Red clouds his vision.

Black, polished shoes topple over, because the only way to see if Sherlock was real was to tackle him - and because John was supremely pissed.

* * *

Brown wood and black sky, blurred and swirling; he can hear yells and cheers and clapping - where is he?

Yellowish water splotched on the tips of his fingers... wait a minute, that's not water, that's gasoline - where the _hell_ is he?

Orange and red flames appear in his peripheral, he's about to be burned alive, but then something cuts through the cacophony, something screaming " _John!"_

Flashes of a blue scarf and a blue jacket: Sherlock and Mary are here to save him from being burned alive, but what they don't know is part of him was already burned three years ago.

* * *

 **Hi, hello, I wrote this at like three am a couple of months ago, and for reasons unknown I haven't posted till today. I know that the ending is kind of rushed and ridiculous, but I really didn't know how to seal it off properly with a sentence that started with a color. Hope you liked it; review if convenient, if not, review anyway.**


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